Dead and Gone

by Bill Kitson

  Nash thanked him and they took their leave. Farrell stood by his office window watching them walk across the car park. He’d told them finding Tankard would probably give them the answers they needed. However, he reckoned that was probably far easier said than done.

  When they were on their way back to the station, Viv asked, ‘Do you think we should talk to the Carlson woman? Farrell made a good point about her being the one person who gained from the fraud.’

  Nash thought for a moment. ‘I think you’re right. However, I’m going to take Clara with me when I talk to her. I want a woman’s perspective on what makes Diane Carlson tick. In the meantime, Viv, I want you to look through that report Farrell’s given us. Check every detail you can. There may be something significant in there that wasn’t obvious at the time, because nobody knew that Linda Wilson had been murdered. Also, give Tom Pratt a call and ask him to find out who lives in that cul-de-sac where Peter Macaulay’s car was parked. It may not help, but if we discover he’s having an affair and who with, it might come in useful at some point.’

  Nash gave Mironova the gist of their conversation with Farrell, and explained what he wanted from their planned interview with Diane Carlson. ‘Get her address and we’ll pay her a visit.’

  They left Pearce and drove across the dale to Bishopton. Diane Carlson expressed her surprise at finding the detectives on her doorstep but invited them into her neat semi-detached on the outskirts of town. She revealed little that was either new or interesting. ‘Yes, I had access to all Linda’s codes, but so did others. After all this time I can’t be sure exactly who did or didn’t have them, but they were hardly kept secret. Back then, we were far more trusting. Perhaps too trusting; gullible, almost. Ever since the B.I.G. disaster, the board has insisted that every group company has adequate security software installed, and that passwords and login codes are both kept secret and changed on a regular basis.’

  ‘Jonathan Farrell admitted he’d done very well as a result of the work he’d carried out on the Bishopton fraud,’ Nash stated.

  ‘Yes, I suppose he has. I can think of a few companies who have installed his programs since the fraud. In fact one or two of our clients asked us directly for our opinion of the software he supplied.’

  ‘He’s not the only one to have gained, though. Your career seems to have flourished.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly doing badly before then. I’d already been earmarked for a seat on the board. Linda’s departure merely accelerated that.’

  ‘You knew you were going to be appointed to the board?’ Clara asked.

  ‘Not in so many words, but all the directors liked my work, and the way the business was expanding at the time, we needed more senior executives. The losses at Bishopton and the economic downturn reversed that fairly quickly, but the need for a competent finance director was, if anything, even more vital.’

  ‘Do you believe Linda Wilson was involved in the fraud?’

  Diane didn’t pause, even momentarily, before answering Nash’s question. ‘I didn’t believe it at the time, I’m even more certain now that she wasn’t involved. Somehow, it came as no surprise when you told us she’d been murdered. I could never equate the cold-blooded theft with the woman I’d worked with. I couldn’t believe the theory that she went along with it because she was besotted with that man Tankard. In fact I thought she was involved in a relationship with someone else.’

  ‘Neil Ormondroyd, perhaps?’

  Diane looked surprised, the first sign of emotion Nash had detected in her. ‘How did you find that out? Even I wasn’t sure. And apart from her brother I was perhaps closer to Linda than anyone.’

  ‘What did you make of Tankard?’

  Her reply surprised them. ‘Actually, I only met him once. He wasn’t a direct employee of Bishopton Investments. He worked on a commission-only basis. As such, I believe he didn’t report into their offices, except with sales. We rarely saw him.’

  ‘We have next to no information about him. Can you describe him for us?’

  ‘That’s not as easy as it sounds. Like I said, I only met him once. He looked like a typical salesman, if you get my meaning? He was medium height, certainly not tall, average build, dressed well, a bit flashy. His hair was brown, little ponytail at the nape of the neck, goatee beard, but I can’t tell you what colour his eyes were, because he wore sunglasses. About the only distinctive thing about him was his voice.’

  ‘Distinctive? In what way?’

  ‘It was a high, falsetto voice. It made him sound effeminate which was totally at odds with his appearance.’

  Nash thanked her, and stood up to leave. ‘One thing I ought to ask,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘Is it Mrs Carlson, or Ms?’

  Diane shook her head. ‘Definitely not Mrs,’ she remarked, showing some feeling for the first time. ‘I’ve never had time or inclination to become involved with anyone. My work is what interests me. Relationships are messy, more trouble than they’re worth. You know where you stand with facts and figures.’

  After they had returned to the CID suite, Clara asked Nash what he thought about their meeting and Ms Carlson.

  ‘About the only thing of interest was her description of Tankard. That’s the only one we have, and it’s about as much use as a chocolate teapot. If you wanted to disguise yourself, I can’t think of a better way than a beard, long hair and sunglasses. Added to that, her description of his voice made it sound as if he was trying to disguise that as well.’

  ‘Why would he need to disguise his voice?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea. As for my opinion of Diane Carlson, I’d be interested to know what happened to make her fight shy of relationships.’

  ‘You don’t buy into the cold, hard accountant line?’

  ‘Not for a minute. I think she’s repressing her feelings, but that they’re present, under the surface, a bit like a volcano waiting to explode.’

  ‘It all sounds unnatural to me. She’s still young and not exactly hideous. In fact if she lost the glasses and wore her hair loose, I’d say she was a very attractive woman.’

  Nash smiled. ‘If I’d said that you’d accuse me of fancying her.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘To be honest, I haven’t given it any thought. Perhaps I’m getting old.’ He seemed quite offended by Clara’s laughter, which merely increased her amusement.

  Viv entered the room and Nash changed the subject quickly. ‘Did Tom have any success with the mystery of Peter Macaulay’s car?’

  ‘He was busy, so I checked out the electoral roll for the address where it was parked and then handed it over to Tom. Her name is Hope Morgan. But Tom’s having problems. He can’t find her on any other records.’

  ‘That in itself doesn’t mean a lot,’ Clara pointed out. ‘She might have been born overseas. Or recently married, or changed her name for other reasons.’

  ‘I think we’ll have to investigate the woman, if only for elimination purposes,’ Nash told them. ‘In the meantime, Clara, I think you’d better explain what’s going on to Viv.’

  The phone rang. Pearce picked it up and listened. ‘OK, Jack, I’ll tell him.’

  He replaced the receiver. ‘Dean Wilson is waiting downstairs to see you. He reckons he’s found some information that might be important. He’s got Naomi Macaulay with him.’

  After greeting the visitors, Nash asked Wilson what he’d found. ‘It wasn’t me that found it,’ Wilson said. ‘It was nosy Naomi.’

  ‘I wasn’t being nosy. I was looking for somewhere to hang my clothes.’ She blushed slightly. ‘It seemed pointless carrying them to and from York all the time. I’ve moved out from home,’ she explained. ‘I told my father and mother I was seeing Dean, and they went ballistic. There was a terrible row. The pair of them went on and on at me for hours until I told them to stuff it. Told them to stuff their money and give it to the chapel. Dad even got my grandfather involved. I sometimes think the gypsies must have swapped the real Naomi for one of their own
babies. I have nothing in common with the rest of my family. I even have red hair like a lot of gypsies.’

  Nash hastened to change the subject. ‘What was it you found?’

  Wilson took up the story. ‘A few months after Linda … disappeared, I was sorting things out at the flat, and in the spare room I found some cardboard boxes. They were tucked away at the bottom of the wardrobe. I looked inside and all that was in them was a load of computer printout sheets. They meant absolutely nothing to me; just ream upon ream of numbers. I’d forgotten all about them until Naomi mentioned them. Do you think they could have anything to do with why she was killed?’

  ‘Impossible to say until we can get an expert to look at them. Have you brought them with you?’

  ‘No, they’re a bit heavy to bring on the bus.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll let you know when I’ve arranged something and either send the expert over to your place or collect the boxes and bring them here.’

  chapter seventeen

  The hotel was part of a chain that provided comfortable low-cost accommodation. As such, it was ideal for both private and business users.

  For Patricia Wain, who spent most of her working life as an auditor away from home, it suited her purpose ideally. Her room was comfortable, and once she had eaten her evening meal, she would be undisturbed, checking the results of her day’s work on her laptop, sending an interim report to the client and preparing for the following day’s tasks.

  The location was unimportant. She could have been in any one of a dozen cities, the hotel would be the same and so would the work. At one time, location had been a problem, which was why she had left the security of her role within one of the major financial institutions to work independently. At least that gave her the chance to pick and choose her clients.

  Sitting in the restaurant, Patricia remembered the events that had decided her move. It might have been something in the way the tables were set out, or possibly the waiter’s Eastern European accent that made the memory come flooding back. She remembered the cafe in the small market square of the town in Kazakhstan where she had dined. Two days after returning home, she had seen footage on the television news of the same cafe; destroyed by a bomb attack. That had been the last straw. She had almost made her mind up to resign before then. As an internal auditor, Patricia’s first task on entering a bank branch was to inspect the insurance policy, which should be kept in the manager’s safe. In response to Patricia’s request on meeting the manager of the bank branch in Kazakhstan, he had laughed and produced an efficient-looking machine pistol from under his desk.

  ‘This is the only insurance I need,’ he asserted confidently.

  Although shaken, Patricia was proud of her response. ‘And how will that protect you against fraud, or staff dishonesty?’

  Despite this, Kazakhstan had been the end of the road for her. She knew there was no mention in her job description of either bombs or guns; nor did her salary contain an element of danger money.

  Patricia’s thoughts returned to the present. The decision to strike out on her own had proved successful, more so than she could have imagined. She silently thanked the politicians who had drafted the Financial Services Act. The provisions of that piece of legislation had toughened the banking sector’s requirements, resulting in a huge volume of work for Patricia and others like her. Admittedly, the large institutions had their own internal audit teams in place, but that was neither a practical nor financially viable option for many smaller companies who were crying out for the services of independent auditors. That accounted for much of the work in Patricia’s full diary. However, there was one case in particular where she knew other, less straightforward reasons might be behind the urgent demand for her services.

  The head of the company concerned had voiced his unease, but had admitted that he had no solid evidence on which to base his suspicion of malpractice somewhere within his organization. Patricia’s challenge was to find out if he was wrong, or, if his suspicions were correct, to identify where the problem was. So convinced was he that something was amiss, that he wasn’t prepared to wait for a spot check to be carried out at some point in the future by quality assurance managers from the banking authorities. Patricia remembered his words, and recalled the note of near-panic in his voice. ‘I need to have it sorted beforehand. The company must be seen to be proactive in this. We cannot afford to be otherwise. I am prepared to pay over the odds if you will promise me this can be your very next job.’

  The lure of a substantial bonus, added to the lucrative rate for the work, had decided her. As soon as she finished the audit she was currently carrying out, she would head north. If she put in some overtime during the evening, that would shorten the time-scale even further.

  She finished her meal and headed for her room, oblivious of another diner who left immediately after her. A diner who followed her, taking the stairs instead of the lift, and arrived on the same floor at the same time. She didn’t see the man standing at the top of the stairwell, watching as she struggled with the key card. Once she’d closed and locked the door she was unable to see the man walk swiftly down the corridor, pause outside her door, noting the room number, before continuing to another room at the far end.

  Patricia switched on her laptop, closed the curtains and began work. She was soon engrossed in the maze of figures onscreen and failed to notice the passage of time. It was over an hour later before something disturbed her concentration. She looked up, mildly annoyed because she had been making such good progress. It had been a sound, faint but definite. She looked round in time to see the door handle moving slowly back to horizontal. Patricia knew the door to be locked. But someone had definitely tried it.

  Although she dismissed the incident and returned to work, her nerves were on edge. Eventually, as time passed, she forgot about the attempted intrusion. She had almost reached the end of the work she had to do, when she heard the sound once more; saw the door handle move again. She leapt to her feet, intending to fling the door open and challenge whoever was out there, and had actually taken a couple of angry strides towards the door when common sense prevailed. She was alone, and unlike the manager in Kazakhstan, unarmed. The lack of such an insurance policy decided her next move. She rang reception.

  The duty receptionist promised to look into the matter and again at 1.15 a.m. when Patricia’s sleep was disturbed, at which point she abandoned all hope of getting any rest. She took breakfast early, and told the duty manager that if the incident was repeated during the final night of her stay she would insist on the involvement of the police.

  Although she expressed her views calmly and forcefully, Patricia was unsure whether the manager viewed them as anything more than the imagination of a mildly hysterical female. She was also unconvinced that he had taken her threat of police involvement seriously.

  When the following evening passed without any repetition of the disturbing incidents, Patricia had all but forgotten the attempts to enter her room by the time she closed her laptop and went to bed. She had finished her report, and all that remained to do was present her findings the following day.

  Exhaustion caused her to drop off within minutes of snuggling down under the covers. Before sleep overtook her, Patricia thought drowsily that it would need something in the order of a small nuclear detonation to wake her.

  She was uncertain how long she’d been asleep when something roused her. Still only half-conscious, she listened for a few moments.

  She sat bolt upright, her hand groping for the switch to turn on the bedside lamp, blinking in the sudden brightness. She waited, watching and listening. Eventually, so softly as to be barely audible, she was able to make out the sound of breathing: heavy breathing, laden with tones of sexual intent. Someone was standing outside her door. Someone with one goal in mind. The threat was unmistakeable.

  The silence was so absolute that Patricia was able to hear the stealthy sound of footsteps retreating along the corridor. With hands that were trem
bling violently, she reached for the phone.

  She explained the problem, her tone abrupt; the threat of police involvement explicit. When she had finished, Patricia sat trembling. This had not been a hotel guest mistaking the room or one who had taken too much to drink. This was something way more menacing.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I am at railway station. Woman is waiting for train.’

  ‘Where is she going? Which train is she catching?’

  ‘She bought ticket to York. After, I do not know.’

  ‘So you can’t be sure if the frightening worked or not?’

  ‘She was scared. Scared and angry. She spoke to hotel manager and he called police.’

  ‘OK, here’s what I want you to do. Take the same train and try to scare her a bit more on the journey. Use your continental charm. When she gets off at York, find out which connection she takes. If she boards the train for Skipton, leave her be, because that means she’s going home and you’ve done the trick. On the other hand, if she takes the train for Netherdale, I want you to stay with her. It’ll be easy once she reaches the place she’s staying.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘The same as you did three years ago.’

  ‘Exactly same?’

  ‘Yes, exactly the same.’

  ‘Is all ready?’

  ‘It is. There will be a car waiting in the station car park. The keys will be on top of the rear wheel. I’ll send you a text with the registration number once you’re on the way.’

  ‘Where do I take woman?’

  ‘I’ll send you the address in the same text.’

  ‘Is place lonely, deserted?’

  ‘Very lonely, but you should know. You’ve been before. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Is better when I don’t have to use gag. I like hearing screams. It excites me.’

  Ivan’s caller shuddered. There are some things it is better not to know.